Remnant
by The Illegible
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan goes quiet, and for a time nobody notices.


Inquisitor Lavellan goes quiet, and for a time nobody notices.

It's a relief in some ways. They're such loud people. He doesn't think he could take their scrutiny now.

Cassandra needed no invitation, did not hesitate to make her position clear. Why oh why would such gifted savages waste time, energy, resources, _lives_ paying tribute to gods that weren't real? To nothing? She didn't notice that he and Abelas share the same _vallaslin_ , misguided markings all that remain to remember themselves.

Cassandra disdains what her Maker did not create, neither knows nor wants to know what the gods were meant to encompass. Dalish heroes are not born of flesh and blood, they race across the heavens and dance for children by firelight. Mythal spoke to them as a dragon in elven shape or maybe the opposite. Eloquent and strong, kind and exacting. Her eye the moon blinking slow. She is their mother who listens, who rewards or punishes only to instruct, who entrusts while understanding the inevitable falter of mortals. Elgar'nan, first to draw breath, learned from her tongue and for her plucked the sun from the sea. Mythal was supposed to be teacher and student, key and shackle, everything he sought comfort in, everything he wills himself to embody.

Nothing.

Varric is an Andrastrian when it counts. The dwarf has to work if he wants to see a man in the Herald beyond what faith makes him. With the grains of countless epics thrown into his eyes, he isn't seeing clearly yet. Solas who hates the Dalish, who has known the unknowable since this began, simply lets his gaze slide past. Lavellan can't read the gesture and doesn't care to. Maybe it is only a courtesy toward the imbecile he can tolerate.

But Sera who he shares roof cookies with, Sera who laughed with him as they moved Cullen's desk and doused Josephine in water, Sera who thinks being too elfy is a personal shortcoming, was more than happy to point out how stupid the whole thing was.

 _Couldn't some of it be true? Couldn't any of it? You are the fucking Herald of Andraste no matter how many times you deny it no matter how many spirits you face no matter how protests wilt on your tongue as you look into the eyes of believers fanatics friends faithful desperate. They take your claims as modesty and your voice as a minor decoration in the symbol you've become._

They have wanted him to be this thing from the start, and can only rejoice in their success.

His clothes are too stiff. He can't speak or swallow, his throat thick with fingers closing cold around his windpipe. Lavellan has to watch each step as he descends into the tavern. Iron Bull waves, a qunari who finds the very concept of family alien surrounded by mercenaries who nonetheless love him like a father. Lavellan has no gesture to return, his path a mechanical repetition following routes long since memorized. He imagines the door before he sees it, pictures halls he will cross and crowds who might glance his way and might not. None of them will ask what he plans to tell the Keeper, his parents, his brother. His little niece with her missing teeth. At the corner of his eye Iron Bull tilts his head and maybe frowns, but the Inquisitor is gone before he can say anything.

There is a banner to pass. Most people forget it's there, lacking the grandeur of Ferelden drapes and their silk tassels. It doesn't command attention like Orlesian statues either, flaunting wealth through gilded figures. More symbols to be sick of.

Lavellan takes the linen between his fingers, clean and white and delicate. He traces bits of metal that click together in a breeze. He tries to remember the sway of aravels, the sounds of halla bleating, chimes ringing beyond his window. It seems very far away.

Part of him wants to steal this reminder of what he was, what he should have been and stayed. He could tear it from the earth. He could run. But most of him just wants to let his body fold in place, allow others to take or make what they want alone. Do the fighting themselves.

They need an Inquisitor. He knows this. But what they have is a Dalish spy whose hand has been torn apart by magic, who can never go home, who will destroy everyone who raised and loved him with the truth he carries.

They prayed together to ideas in their heads. They carried out rituals for no one and nothing.

Someone places an arm around his back, a hand on his bicep. He finds himself being led forward, upward. Guided by another's will.

A hat brim brushes his cheek. Cole's pace is quick and even. "Follow me," the spirit murmurs, "they'll think I'm only trying to say something. I can be this way, eccentric awkward out of place odd and off. They'll notice me before they notice you." Lavellan exhales, and it trembles in his chest. He wants to close his eyes. He doesn't.

"They aren't going to leave me alone," he answers as quietly as he can. They pass through the archway. Dull, distant conversation hums in the background. Sunshine filters through dwarven glass it was never meant for. "I can't…"

"They," Cole replies, firm but stilted, "will wait for you, who waited while they wandered wavered wept." He pauses. The Andrastrian throne stands beside them. Lavellan meets its eyes and a sound, terrible and soft, crawls into his mouth. His knees buckle. Cole holds him tighter, painfully upright, and he finds himself grateful.

They practically fly through the door to his quarters, and once it's closed behind them they manage to finish their way to his room proper. Even here he is surrounded by his office. The Orlesian bed Josephine persuaded him would be most comfortable, the Inquisition's eye painted overhead and adorning the floor. Quickly, like a well-intentioned child, Cole throws his arms around him.

Neither of them says anything. Bit by bit, Lavellan begins to breathe, lets himself breathe. It hurts, and it comes shuddering, uneven, sharp. His head dips, stops on his companion's shoulder. His eyes burn and blur and not seeing is a relief. Gradually, he returns the embrace.

"You can," says Cole quietly. Lavellan feels the wet, ugly noise deep in his chest. He holds tight.

"I'm sorry," he manages at length, strained and interrupted by his own grief, "I'm sorry. It shouldn't be me."

"You are Mahanon before anything else," Cole replies, "and they never use your real name. All the rest is part of you but it is not _you_. Breaking yourself into pieces will bleed into everything you touch until you are less bright than yesterday and every day before. I can see you this time."

"Cole," he sobs, "They… They need this. I'm the Inquisitor." When he left his clan, they held him the same way. Told him to be safe and that they would be there when he returned. His mission was to deliver a report, to protect them with information. He's failed, and instead he will destroy everything they are.

"They will not fall because of you. The Inquisition is a creature with a thousand souls searching spreading seizing succeeding, they will carry you too. And the People are strong." Cole stops. When he begins again his answer is careful, "Solas has forgotten what it means to change, eyes always staring back ever walking in reverse to undo mistakes never mending. It isn't the way things should be. You, the People, don't need to be like that. There's still room."

"I can't go back," answers Lavellan, "it's gone now." He steps away, stumbles, sits on the bed. Starts to run a hand over his eyes and lets it stay there. "I don't know what would be left if I tried."

"Your clan never wanted you to suffer," says Cole, beside him. "They only wonder witness with pride and when you return they will share the weight. This was never meant for you, an Inquisitor but not theirs. Mahanon. They haven't forgotten."

It is the right thing to say.

* * *

When he finally sleeps it is for a long time. He wakes alone.

He props himself up, finds a note on his bedside table. Josie's handwriting explains, gently, that this is something they can afford. A major victory has been achieved. He should rest. Two other signatures follow hers, the commander and spymaster respectively. Mahanon exhales. It comes easy this time.

A row of Dalish banners hang from the arch above his balcony. Behind them, the moon is full.


End file.
